


in your absence

by puckity



Series: Sam/Bucky Week 2014 [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: (Burgeoning) Friendship Fic, Bisexuality, Gen, M/M, Mentions of PTSD, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-03
Updated: 2014-10-03
Packaged: 2018-02-19 17:55:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2397494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/puckity/pseuds/puckity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Technically Sam finds him first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	in your absence

**Author's Note:**

> My take on the finding Bucky trope, with bonus OT3 nudging.
> 
> Written for Sam/Bucky Week 2014 and beta'd by the wonderful-as-ever Rachel!
> 
> You can also follow me on [Tumblr](http://puckity.tumblr.com/).

Technically Sam finds him first.

Splitting up is Sam’s suggestion. They’d been following leads up and down the Eastern seaboard for what felt like a hell of a lot longer than three months. Every park, office building, corner market, library, diner, motel—they’d covered as a team. Steve’s phone had started ringing a few weeks ago but he never took the calls. He started switching it to silent and not even taking it out of his pocket when it rang. Sam noticed, and he knew that only a few people—a few important people that Sam wouldn’t mind meeting when the timing was a little better—had that number. Sam didn’t necessarily want to be responsible for Captain America being classified as missing in action. He’d get a lot of grief if huge chunks of another major city were destroyed because Steve wouldn’t answer his goddamn phone.

Steve wanted to stay together, of course. He’d said this was more important, said he couldn’t leave Sam to deal with it on his own. He’d sounded like he was expecting an attack, and Sam thinks that maybe he does. Steve had looked at him like he was fighting the urge to make it an order— _we go together_ —but Cap’s commands felt forced off-the-clock, for both of them. Sam would have said that Steve didn’t get to tell him what to do when they weren’t on a mission and Steve would have said that they _are_ on a mission and then they’d start rehashing the same argument they’d had ten times over since all this began. And as much as Sam enjoyed what often came after those arguments, he knew that nothing was getting solved—nothing would get solved—until they found him. And Steve couldn’t fight two battles at once.

So they’d stood quiet toe-to-toe with Sam’s arms crossed and Steve clenching and unclenching his fists and eventually Steve let out a hard sigh and muttered, “Call me every day, please. Even if nothing happens.”

“Yes, sir.” Sam had grinned because he knew it annoyed Steve; but more than that, he knew it distracted him and they could both use more distraction than they got these days. “But if I find him, I get to keep him.”

And they had laughed and talked into the night and slept tangled up in one bed even though they’d paid for two and in the morning they’d gone down the street for pancakes and peach tea before Sam dropped Steve off at the local bus station and watched him board a Greyhound with a sign for NEW YORK propped up in its front window.

It’s a little lonely, Sam can admit, without that big dumb supersoldier crowding up the space next to him. But they’re partners and have each other’s backs and that counts even when those backs get called 500 miles away.

\---

Technically, Sam finds him first—but Steve is always watching, tracking, analyzing and giving Sam mission reports from wherever he is on any given evening. He’s been going over past footage too, anything he can get his hands on from all the places they searched. Sam pulls up his e-mail as Steve’s voice taps along on the line, like purposeful strikes on a keyboard.

“—couldn’t get any footage from Hazard but I’m almost positive that I spotted him on some parking garage surveillance cameras when we were in Cranston. I haven’t been able to get full access in Raleigh yet—Stark is working on that—but it feels like he’s slowing down. Almost like he’s waiting, if that makes sense.”

It does, because Sam has felt it too. For a while now, it’s felt less like they are chasing something and more like something is following them. Following _him_.

Sam stares at the grainy screencaps that Steve sent as attachments. They’re time-stamped three and a half weeks ago and—if Sam is being perfectly honest—the figure huddled in the corner of the image could be a bag of trash as much as it could be a person, for the resolution quality. But he doesn’t say that.

“Do you really think that we should be trusting Stark with all this tech stuff? I mean, with what’s going on…” Sam clicks out of the picture file, closes his laptop.

“No, no, it’s fine. Natasha’s been doing most of the work anyway.” Steve’s tone is wedged confident but Sam can hear a crack of uncertainty running through it.

“Natasha?” Something pokes at his chest—not painful so much as irritating, and Sam’s not sure who the brunt of it is actually directed at.“How is _she_ doing?”

“She’s fine.” Sam can hear Steve’s smirk through the phone. “I told her you said hey.”

“Damn right I did.” Sam snorts. He wants to say something snappy, something that will turn the topic but keep their little game going. But he also wants to hear Steve laugh, wants to hear the happy outweigh the serious even if it’s just for a second. He chews at the inside of his lip. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I miss you.”

The line stills. Sam thinks he can picture Steve exactly, eyes low and ears flushed, considering.

“I miss you too, Sam.”

There’s a commotion in the background, a burst of voices and movement and Sam’s pretty sure that he hears someone shouting, “Goddamnit, Tony!”

“Sounds like there’s something you need to take care of.” Sam is chuckling softly, shaking his head, and imagining—in the midst of all the incredibly dangerous and psychologically scarring threats they face—all the crazy stuff that must come go down at Avengers Tower.

“Just par for the course.” And Steve is laughing too, which is good enough for Sam.

“Be careful.” Sam tries not to sound like his mother. He’s not totally successful. “Watch yourself out there.”

“You too,” Steve pauses. “Find Bucky.”

Sam rolls his neck and it cracks out angry at the effort. “I’m working on it.”

\---

Technically, Sam finds him first but maybe he’s never really left Sam. Sam sleeps in the middle of the bed to trick his body into forgetting how much bigger cheap motel rooms feel without Steve in them and when he closes his eyes it’s there. Always, since before Steve left. Since Washington. Since Sam walked into a war zone again without looking back.

Sometimes it’s an arm crashing through a window or bullets shooting through a roof or people being ripped out of cars and thrown into oncoming traffic. Sometimes it’s disembodied terror—no face, no conscience, nothing but _target terminated_.

Sometimes it’s the living, breathing machine. The muzzle, the mask. Sometimes it’s impossibly strong kicks off buildings or helicarriers—and it could have been Steve, if they were on opposite sides of the fight—and Sam is falling. Falling like Riley like a bird out of the sky with clipped wings and it’s the end and Sam doesn’t regret anything except that when he’s gone Steve will be alone again.

Sometimes it’s a person he doesn’t know, can’t know. It’s the ghost of a hero, a portrait hanging in a museum. It’s someone Sam grew up reading stories about, someone who belongs in the past or on a porch with a cane and a lifetime of memories or in the cemetery where Peggy Carter and Howard Stark paid for a tombstone next to Steve’s. Everything’s sepia-toned and Sam wonders if he’s been spending too much time with Steve because he thinks they might be starting to dream the same.

And sometimes it’s just an expression frozen in time and ice. Eyes behind eyes that haunt Sam, and he wakes up to a screeching metal scream.

\---

Sam scrolls through the newest set of grainy security shots from Steve on his phone. _That could be anyone_ , Sam thinks—but the longer he stares at it the louder the voice is his head gets.

_It’s him._

The most recent one is from two days ago; Sam remembers that street corner. He remembers that block and the way the sun glared off the aluminum awnings so he couldn’t see three feet in front of him. He remembers the sweat running down the back of his neck and the kind, curious way that the cashier at the gas station tilted her head when Sam showed her the picture.

“Have you seen this person?” Sam had flashed her a toothy smile to put her at ease. “He’s a friend of mine; I’ve been trying to find him.”

She’d shrugged. “Not sure. That’s a weird photo.”

“Yeah,” Sam sighed. “It’s old.”

He had been there, tucked away down a side alley that Sam should have checked—thought he _had_ checked. There and—in the time it took for Sam to buy a Charleston Chew—gone.

Sam is starting to feel like he’s going nuts, like he’s picked up someone else’s emotional baggage by mistake and now he’s just dragging it around. The counselor in Sam folds his arms and tries to hide his disappointment with him. Occasionally he breaks into a lecture that Sam tunes out with basic cable and late night snack binges because, hell, if you’re gonna make unhealthy life choices you might as well make it count.

But Sam doesn’t know what else he’s supposed to do. He—Barnes—has to know that they’re onto him. Has to know that Sam knows he’s there. So why are they still playing this game, still pretending like they’re invisible to each other? Sam doesn’t know if he’s going to reach out or lash out, if it’s a hand or a sniper rifle waiting for him, but he wishes Barnes would do _something_ because he doesn’t know how much more of this cat and mouse bullshit he can take.

His stomach churns, bemoans the bottles of Gatorade and value bags of Doritos that Sam’s been living off of for about 36 hours now. Sam thinks about going to the barbeque place in town and flirting with the cute waitress again, but decides that he’s probably a little too tired and dehydrated to be on his game tonight. So he goes back and orders a pizza, turns on the TV to catch the tail-end of the cheesy sci-fi marathon that one of the motel’s seven stations has been running all week. Tonight is _Attack of the Killer Tomatoes_. He eats five slices as the days—the months—start to catch up with him. He drags himself off the bed long enough to put the rest of the pizza in the mini-fridge and brush his teeth. Then he shuffles to the door and reaches for the deadbolt.

 _Lock the door_ , Steve had said—so Sam did. Apparently Barnes had been able to pick locks long before HYDRA welded a metal arm to his body that could just rip a door off its hinges so Sam figures it’s more for Steve’s benefit than for Sam’s actual safety. If Barnes wanted to get into his motel room, an extra lock wasn’t going to stop him.

 _Or maybe it was._ Sam’s hand hovers over the deadbolt; sure he is dead on his feet and maybe all those electrolytes sloshing around his brain are making him delirious but Sam wonders. Wonders what would happen if he stopped looking, stop waiting. If he made the invitation explicit.

Aside from giving a literal open door to every thief and pervert and general psychopath in the area, Sam wonders what would happen if that click doesn’t come. If that bolt doesn’t slide into place tonight. He drops his hand to the doorknob and turns it until the lock button pops out.

Then he goes to bed with his hand curled around a knife under his pillow.

\--- 

Sam thinks he won’t sleep. He’s sure that the adrenaline clawing through his veins like it’s going to tear him apart will keep him awake, alert. He’s sure the knife handle biting into his hand will remind him why he can’t drift into the blackness. And maybe Sam didn’t sleep because when he opens his eyes it’s still dark and quiet but he’s drooling a little on the pillowcase and something outside the open window is whirring, like a toy truck spinning its wheels.

But, Sam reminds himself, the window isn’t open. And it isn’t just whirring he can hear; it’s faint but if he strains he can hear breathing slow and controlled and shallow as though enough air is being taken in to survive—but no more.

Sam’s fingers flex around the knife. He’s not sure how he wants to play this so he shifts onto his side, hand still stuffed under the pillow, and hopes it reads as unconscious readjustment. Sam can feel the air in the room constrict, can feel their spines stiffen, can see Barnes in pale watery silhouette but he doesn’t open his eyes yet.

Nothing moves for a tense beat, then an exhale rushes out and Sam isn’t sure if it’s him or Barnes or both of them together. When Sam opens his mouth, his voice is dry and crackly.

“You here to kill me?”

Nothing. Sam groans, more frustrated than anything. He cracks one eye open, then the other. Barnes is sitting in the rickety chair that came with the rickety table that Sam sometimes forgets is in every low-budget motel room. He’s wearing a dark hoodie that hides everything but a silver hand and Sam notices that the whirring is irregular—fast and then slow, high-pitched like a hiss and then low like a wheeze. Barnes’s right arm is supporting his left, almost cradling it. Sam lets go of the knife and pulls his hand out. He sits up, calculating his movements, and keeps his eyes trained on Barnes.

“You’re hurt.” Sam didn’t think—didn’t realize until now—that Barnes could be in sustained pain. He’d sat by Steve’s bed for four days after they’d found him on the banks of the Potomac. Sam had catalogued all the wounds his body had endured, seen just how destructible Captain America really was, but it never occurred to him that there had been another destructible supersoldier on the other end of it with wounds to match.

Barnes’ eyes meet his; they are the eyes in Sam’s dreams. In his nightmares. Full of rage and horror and confusion and defiance and for a second Sam thinks that this is the worst plan he’s ever had. His hand itches for his blade.

“I don’t know you.” The voice is strange, foreign to Sam and he remembers that he’s never hear Barnes speak before. It sounds labored, out of breath, like the effort of talking to someone instead of just slitting their throat is almost too much for him.

Sam tries to keep his expression impassive but he can feel his eyebrows arching up. “Sure you do. You kicked me off a flying helicarrier and destroyed the best part of my suit.” He knows it isn’t the time for airing grievances but Sam is gonna be pissed if Barnes can remember 70 years ago with Steve but not ten weeks ago trying to kill him.

Something rigid flashes across Barnes’ face. His head jerks suddenly and Sam can see that it’s involuntary, like a muscle spasm. He grits his teeth and shakes it off.

“He knows you.” The metal fingers twitch. “But I don’t. The man—Steve—I knew, I know him. But I didn’t…don’t know you.”

Sam thinks he might be starting to get it.

“Sam Wilson.” He fights to urge to go over and offer a handshake; it’s probably still too early for that. He nods instead. “Now you know me.”

Barnes shifts and the chair creaks. “They say I’m James Barnes.” He looks away, beyond Sam even though there’s nothing back there but a mediocre painting of a sunflower and the bathroom door. “I don’t feel like a James.”

“Then I’ll call you Barnes.” Sam leaves Bucky for Steve; he wouldn’t feel right taking that from him. Sam thinks he sees some of the ice draining out of Barnes’ gaze but then an unsettling thought begins to gnaw at him, right behind the ears. “Is he here?”

Barnes doesn’t ask who Sam means. His head drops. “The Soldier is always here.”

Sam feels a cold, mechanical vice grip reach inside his chest and squeeze tight. He swallows down the bile that rises burning up his throat.

“Well, you’ve got me now.” And Sam’s amazed at how convincing the voice coming out of his mouth sounds. Barnes lifts his head and peers at him skeptically. Sam sits up a little straighter. “So at least you won’t have to deal with him alone anymore.”

The Soldier never left so, technically, Sam found him first.


End file.
